


Just the Wine

by ChronicallyOwlish



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Beka Day, Character Study, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 22:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13691256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicallyOwlish/pseuds/ChronicallyOwlish
Summary: It looks like fun, she'd like to dance too, but the only person without a partner is Tyr.





	Just the Wine

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little Valentine's Day fic for those who love a little Beka/Tyr in honor of Beka Day.

There is music, and candles, and wine. Delicious wine—red like precious gemstones and smooth on the tongue with a hint of pepper. She doesn’t drink normally, and she has no idea what has possessed her to do so tonight, but her cheeks are warm now and there is a pleasant fuzziness wrapped around her thoughts that may be from the wine, or may be because of _him_. She prefers not to analyze it too closely.

The others are dancing. Dylan has found a rosy-cheeked diplomat from a backwater drift Beka can’t remember the name of, while Harper is teaching Trance to waltz. She’s graceful, and a quick study, able to follow Harper’s inconsistent lead. They are smiling and laughing at every misstep as they spin around the dance floor the way good friends do, making the most of a night that requires formal wear and being on their best behavior—something Trance is good at and Harper is not so much. Even Rommie is out on the floor, deep in conversation with the Castilian ambassador.

It looks like fun, really. She’d like to dance, but the only person who hasn’t yet found a partner stands placidly beside her, eying the room with an alertness that always makes her think of a predator expecting an attack. As if Tyr senses her watching, he glances over, meeting her gaze for a brief moment before looking away. She considers asking him anyway, but shakes the thought off.

“What?” he asks after a beat, not even bothering to look in her direction. She’s annoyed now. He’s reading her again and she hates it when he does it—and he knows that.

“What do you mean, what? They’re all out there having fun out there and we’re just standing here.” Her tone is a little too sharp, her feelings a little too clear.

A goddamned smirk pulls up half his mouth and he raises a single eyebrow as if he can only be bothered to give her half an expression. “You want to dance.”

It's a statement, not a question and there is a hint of mocking there. She raises both her eyebrows, glaring.

“Yes, I want to dance.” She says it directly because even though he won’t show it, the demand will annoy him. There is a twitch at the corner of his mouth. She’s challenged him and he has to respond. He knows how to dance, they’ve danced together before, and she doesn’t believe for a second the formal ballroom aspect of this event is an obstacle; he’s Nietzschean and they are experts at culture and courtship. Dancing is both.

The music stops and couples shuffle on and off the dance floor. She squares her shoulders and locks her gaze with his, doubling down on the challenge without saying a word. If he’s going to read her anyway, he can read her now. Conversation picks up around them in the moment of silence between tracks, but she remains steadfast. The first strains of music begin to play, strings singing out into the room, hushing conversation once more, and finally, he gives in. He holds a hand out to her.

A few steps in and his hand is on her waist, turning her towards him. She snaps into place and he holds up a hand for her to grab. Another waltz, string instruments and pianos rising and falling in beats of three. It seemed like a lifetime ago her father taught her to waltz before her first Salvager’s Debutante Ball, but her feet remember.

One, two, three.

Up close he is all muscles and skin. Something spicy tickles her nostrils as she breathes in slowly, trying to calm her traitorous heart as it speeds up for no reason at all. His grace in battle extends to the dance floor, feet moving in perfect time to the music. There is training in those steps; they’re smooth and well practiced, and his arm never falters. There is a constant tension where their hands meet, enough to let him know she will follow, but only so far.

One, two, three.

He pushes on her back and she spins, the room becoming a blur of unrecognizable faces, before she’s back again, closer this time. Hip to hip they sway, gazes locked, neither giving in. He ups the ante, pushing her and pulling her into a series of more complicated steps, his fingers digging into her back, muscles rippling against her side. Her breath quickens—from the exertion, of course.

One, two, three.

There is no one else in the room now. It’s gone silent save for the music and the sound of her own heart beating. Everything a Nietzschean man does is to attract a mate. He’s showing off, drawing her in, and she wants in—God does she want in. Another push and he twists her until her back is pressed against his torso, their arms locked up together and she stumbles for the first time. There is a jump in his chest that tells her he is laughing.

One, two, three.

Back around now, she can see the amusement in his eyes, and her mind taunts her.

_This is what you wanted, is it not?_

It is. It isn’t. She can’t look away and she can’t think; all of her senses are full of Tyr. He slows down now as the music begins to taper down. His grip on her waist softens and becomes almost tender. Their bodies are painfully close together. When the music stops he pulls away, the obligation of a dance met, and she’s left standing there in the middle of the floor with the room coming back into focus, wondering what just happened.

She takes a deep breath and then another. Must have been the wine.


End file.
